


From the Snappy Snack Shack to a Game of Strip Croquet

by Ishmael_Autolycus



Category: Heathers (1988)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishmael_Autolycus/pseuds/Ishmael_Autolycus
Summary: Exactly what it says- a little between the scenes fill-in fic.
Relationships: Jason "J. D." Dean/Veronica Sawyer
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

“Maybe it’s time to take a vacation.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Then the bitch in the Mustang blares the horn again. Veronica’s mouth twists in a wry grimace as she looks over, then back to him again. “Once you start flying with the eagles, the only way out is to crash land. Hard.”

He shrugs. “There are worse things.”

“Not in Sherwood.” She glances over at the Mustang again. “I’d better go before she blows a gasket or something.” She grins at him. “Later.”

“Later.” He turns to watch as she walks over to the Mustang, eyes magnetically drawn to the sway of her hips. She opens the car door and his eyes come up to meet hers. She gives him a knowing smirk and a saucy wink, then steps into the Mustang.

He grins back in rueful acknowledgment, mimes tipping his hat, then the bitch guns the Mustang and peels out of the parking lot. He wonders which Heather she is- the leader, obviously, if that little scene in the lunchroom is anything to go by- but he’s still matching up names with faces. Really though, it doesn’t matter. From what he’d gathered they were all Grade-A bitches, including Veronica. Which should be reason enough to avoid the whole pack of them. Still, there’s something about her, something... more, something he can’t quite name, but it draws him in.

He shakes his head, takes a long drag on his cigarette. They might be here through the fall, but more likely his dad will be moving them on to the next shithole ‘burb sometime this summer. Either way, there’s no point in getting involved with anyone- no matter how intriguing.

He takes a final drag from his cigarette, dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot, then starts his bike and pulls out of the parking lot.

He cruises through Beautiful Downtown Sherwood, past the empty shops with their signs offering “Below Market Rent”, past the courthouse and the standard park with the standard memorial to the standard dead from some war or other, and stops by the derelict hotel his father is supposed to be demolishing and replacing with... something or other. Who knows, and who the fuck cares?

He puts the bike back into gear and follows the street as it parallels the old abandoned railroad tracks out of town. He rides through darkened farmland, turning at a random crossroad, then another, looping back into town. He’s cruising through one of the residential neighborhoods now; a fairly nice one from what he can see. He could do with another cigarette, so he pulls over to the curb, just in front of a pickup that looks way too nice and shiny to have ever been used as a work truck, and kills the engine.

He lights a cigarette, then tilts his head back and blows smoke up at the full moon. A stray cat darts through the pool of light from a streetlight and ducks beneath a station wagon with that faux wood paneling. It’s quiet here, peaceful, with all the good people of Sherwood, Ohio tucked in their little beds, dreaming their little dreams of- Jesus fuck!

Something roars past him and halts by the station wagon with a screech of tires on asphalt. It’s a red Mustang. The door flies open and someone scrambles out, slamming the door behind her. It’s Veronica. She tears off one of her shoes and throws it at the Mustang as it roars away, then turns and limps up the driveway, pausing after a few steps to kick off her other shoe before padding the rest of the way up the driveway and into the house. A few moments later a light comes on in an upstairs window.

The party must not have gone well. He finishes his cigarette, then starts his bike and cruises slowly past Veronica’s house. Her high heel is lying in the middle of the street; he stops and picks it up, tucking it into one of his saddlebags. It’s late, and she’s probably not in a good mood, but he can come back tomorrow during the day and return it to her. In the meantime he might cruise around for another hour or so, then head home.


	2. Chapter 2

Jesus fucking Christ, that was a Remington party? That? It’s not like she’d been expecting the Algonquin Roundtable or anything, but that? That was nothing more than a fucking kegger with (slightly) older kids. And a fucking shitload of pot. God, her clothes and her hair still stink of it. And whatever had been in that fucking punch hadn’t tasted any better the second time around either. She needs a shower. And to brush her fucking teeth. Thank Christ she has her own bathroom, so at least she doesn’t have to worry about disturbing her parents this late.

The sound of a motorcycle rumbling by drifts through her open window. God, she should have just stayed at that damned Snappy Snack Shack with JD; it would’ve been better than that damned party. Probably. It couldn’t have been any worse.

She turns the shower on, letting the water heat up while she brushes her teeth, then tosses her clothes into the hamper- well, towards the hamper anyway- and steps into the shower.

She was history? She was history? Not once she told everyone exactly how goddamn pathetic a Remington party really was. Who’d be fucking history then? Heather and Heather had both been to one too, so they knew exactly what really- what really- Shit. Heather and Heather both knew, and they hadn’t said anything. Fuck. She was dead. No one would believe her.

She turns off the water and steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her torso. If she goes to sleep now, with her hair wet like this, it’ll be a tangled mess in the morning, so she plugs in her hair dryer and quickly dries her hair.

Who the hell- In what kind of a just world does someone like Heather Goddamn Fucking Chandler have that much power?

Because nobody who could gives enough of a fuck to stop her, that’s why.

She finishes drying her hair, then changes into a pair of pajamas and wraps the kimono Uncle Jimmy sent her for her fifteenth birthday around her. She goes over to her desk; for a moment she can hear the sound of a motorcycle, then it cuts off. She shrugs, sits down at her desk, inserts her monocle, and opens her diary.

_Dear Diary,_

_I want to kill, and you have to believe it's for more than just selfish reasons,_


	3. Chapter 3

Who the hell did he think he was, Prince Fucking Charming? “Forsooth, fair maiden, I returneth unto thee thy shoe.” And hadn’t he just decided the smart thing to do was to not get involved with anyone this time? Be the weird kid everyone avoids; that way you know from the start they’ll never write you back.

Besides, she’s probably asleep by now anyhow; normal people are awake during the day and sleep at night, as his father is oh so fond of reminding him. He’ll just cruise by, toss the shoe in her front yard, and head back to his house.

He pulls up behind the station wagon; her window is still lit- she probably just fell asleep with the light on or something. Then a silhouette passes by the window, and he’s turning off the bike and dismounting before he can even think about it.

He dismisses the idea of just yelling up at her window; he does have some couth. (And it would probably wake her parents too; with his luck her father keeps a shotgun by his bed.) Tossing gravel at someone’s window always works in the movies- but the Sawyers’ have a paved driveway. Is there anything else he can throw? Nothing he can see here, but maybe around back... There is, of all things, a croquet setup- a croquet ball through her window would get her attention, but probably not in a good way- and, leaning up against the terrace, a ladder.

That’s... a pretty crazy idea. But the extreme does make an impression, and she certainly seemed impressed. Before he can second guess himself, he picks up the ladder and carries it back to beneath her window.

The ladder reaches to just beneath her window sill (any higher would be too steep of an angle- he’s reckless, not suicidal); he double-checks that the footing is solid and begins to climb.

Frightfully sorry to dist- yeah, maybe if this was fucking Masterpiece Theatre or something. Greetings and- he’s used that one already. Deepest apol- no-

Something hits the wall just as he reaches her open window; he sticks his head inside, she gives a startled scream and “Dreadful etiquette; I apologize,” comes out of his mouth.

“Th- That’s okay.”

Shit, now what? “I ah, saw the croquet setup in the back. You up for a match?”

She stands up from her desk and comes over to window, her mouth curling in a smile. “Give me a minute; I’m not exactly dressed for it.”

He grins back. “I’ll be waiting.” He winks, then slides down the ladder to the ground.

“Oh my God.” Her head and shoulders are through the open window, her hands gripping the sill. “How did you do that?”

He spreads his hands in mock humility. “What can I say? I’m good.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Go choose your mallet. I’m blue.”

He bows. “As m’lady commands.”

She rolls her eyes, but he can see the smile tugging at her lips as she pulls her head back inside.

The black and the orange are the only two mallets that are actually in the rack, while the other four have just been casually leaned up against it. If he had to guess, the Heathers were probably the other three players. He wonders if they each have a favorite color- wait, would getting involved with Veronica mean he’d have to deal with them too? Fuck it; he grabs the black mallet and matching ball- yeah the orange would be easier to see in the dark, but he’s not really an orange kind of guy.

Fortunately the hoops- wickets? Or is that something else?- and shit are already set up; he vaguely remembers you’re supposed to start at one stake and go through all the hoops before reaching the other one, and then back again, maybe? Something like that. Maybe he should let Veronica go first; take his cues from her.

He drops the ball on the grass, lines up a shot on the closest hoop, swings his mallet- and misses the hoop completely.

“Starting without me?” She’s changed into a pair of slacks, a short-sleeved blouse and what looks like the vest from an old suit.

He shrugs and walks over to retrieve his ball. “Been a while. Wanted to get a few practice shots in.”

“Don’t let me stop you.” She saunters over to the rack, picks up the blue mallet and ball. “Y’know, the only way anyone can see this part of the yard is if they come out on the terrace.”

He lines up another shot, this time hitting the edge of the hoop. “Oh?”

“I was just thinking, we could make this game a bit more... interesting. If you’re up for it.”

He retrieves his ball again. “What did you have in mind?”

She drops her ball next to his. “Oh, something like, every time a player makes a wicket, her opponent,” she swings her mallet, sending her ball through the hoop, “loses an article of clothing.”

He swings, and this time his ball goes through the hoop as well. “Or his.”

“Or his,” she agrees, flashing him a wicked smile. “You ready?”

“After you.”


End file.
